THE DAY ROOM AT THE SANTA CLARA COUNTY GIRLS’ JUVENILE Detention Center was by far the most depressing place Bree had ever been.
Intended as some kind of free space, the day room was a windowless, color-blocked cell furnished from a cut-rate office supply catalog where inmates were allowed to watch TV, play board games, read, or tackle homework as their privilege level allowed.
The bland atmosphere mirrored the inmates’ moods. Everyone looked worn down and half-dead, like a room full of lobotomy patients. They slogged from table to door to bookcase, eyes aimlessly searching for something new and interesting to break the monotony, and as Bree stared at TV commercials during the overly chipper local morning news, she wondered how long it would be before she felt as beaten down as the rest of the girls in her housing pod.
She could already feel the hopelessness seeping in. It had been a long four days since her arrest after claiming responsibility for the DGM pranks, during which time she’d endured seemingly endless police interrogations about the murders of Ronny DeStefano and Coach Creed. Bree had stonewalled mercilessly, taking great pleasure at Sergeant Callahan’s growing irritation as she refused to answer any of his questions. Then the daily therapy sessions with Dr. Walters, who seemed intent on connecting Bree’s “attention-seeking” behavior to her relationship with her parents. Again, she gave the doctor very little satisfaction. Even in jail, Bree couldn’t help rebelling against authority.
Meanwhile, it had been radio silence from everyone she cared about. Bree had no idea what had happened to Margot, and no clue as to whether or not Christopher had left the rest of DGM alone after Bree turned herself in.
Not that she’d expected to hear from Olivia or Kitty. They had work to do. If the killer had been true to his word, then he would have backed off once Bree confessed. She needed Olivia and Kitty to use this truce to find Christopher and get her the hell out of there. They were her only chance at freedom.
Because, as Bree well knew, dear old dad wasn’t going to come to her rescue this time. He’d made that abundantly clear last week when he saved her from expulsion after she punched Rex Cavanaugh in the face. Next time, you’re on your own.
And then there was her mom. Bree blinked and stared at the wall, slabs of concrete painted butter yellow and Pepto pink. Had anyone told her? Would she even care?
Bree swallowed and fought back the emotion welling up inside. Despite her bravado, Bree was scared. She felt utterly alone, abandoned by her friends, her family, even John.
I know you didn’t kill them.
No, not John. He would never abandon her. Would he?
Bree clenched her teeth so hard she felt the tendons pop around her jaw. She was a convict now, being held on suspicion of murder. Would he feel the same way about her? Would he forget about her if she spent the next twenty years behind bars? Was she destined to become as forgotten as the rest of these inmates?
“Bree Deringer?”
Bree jumped in her chair at the sound of her name. Dr. Walters stood in the doorway. “Come with me, please.”
Every set of eyes in the room turned to Bree. Some looked combative, as if they resented the new girl being singled out. Others watched her wistfully, wishing they too had been summoned away for reasons unknown just to break the routine.
Dr. Walters was all smiles as she led Bree to her office. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” she said, making small talk.
Apparently, the esteemed doctor had missed the fact that she’d just retrieved Bree from a windowless room. “Um, yeah.”
Dr. Walters closed her office door behind her. “Well, it’s about to get even better for you.”
Bree had no idea what she was talking about, but took a seat while Dr. Walters shuffled through some papers on her desk.
“Here’s the schedule for the group therapy outpatient sessions,” Dr. Walters said, handing Bree a printout. “It’s the same setup as here—everything we discuss is completely confidential and all the girls are former inmates of the Santa Clara County Girls’ Juvenile Detention Center.”
Bree took the schedule from Dr. Walters’s outstretched hand, her brain still focused on the word “outpatient.”
“Excuse me,” Bree said, hardly allowing herself to believe it might be true. “Are we being transported somewhere for group therapy?”
Dr. Walters tilted her head to the side. “No, Bree. You’re being released today.”
“What?”
“You’ll be fitted with an anklet at the processing desk, and then remanded to parental custody under house arrest.” Dr. Walters beamed. “Isn’t that exciting?”
Oh, shit. Her dad was going to rip her a new one when he hauled her out of juvie. Maybe he already had a cell reserved for her at that East Coast convent school he kept threatening her with? Bree swallowed, her tongue suddenly two sizes too large for her mouth. “When is my dad coming to get me?”
“He’s not,” Dr. Walters said. “We’re releasing you to your mother.”
